


like lightning in a bottle

by biancarambles



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Ciri plotting, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon Ships It, Day 5 - realisations, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Being an Idiot, Jaskier being a gay disaster, Jealous Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Mentions of past drunken hookups, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-05-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24442066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biancarambles/pseuds/biancarambles
Summary: Everybody's invited to Cirilla Fiona Riannon's 20th birthday. Lavish mansion, open bar, the possibility to snoop into the secret lives of the rich and the famous... How could Friday night get any better? Except that Jaskier, drama student and partygoer extraordinaire, has been avoiding a certain white-haired rugby player for two months now. Ciri, however, has her own agenda to get the two to iron out their misunderstandings. Mess ensues as she schemes.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 162





	like lightning in a bottle

**Author's Note:**

> My second installment of the Geraskier Week 2020 (just two months late).
> 
> This fandom is truly the gift that keeps on giving, even in these quarantine times.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, scoffing as Google Maps crashed again. Inhaling and on the verge of a nervous breakdown, he squinted and tried to wipe his phone on his equally soaked jean while trying to ignore the raindrops rolling off his hood and unto his nose. This time he groaned aloud as the supposed “smart” phone didn't recognize his fingerprints. Wet or not, disowned by his family or not, he was still Julian Alfred Pankratz.

He probably had around 5 or 10 more minutes to go. 5 to 10 minutes of pathetic, vain, sullied walk to a party he didn’t even want to attend. Resigning himself, he sunk his head into his shoulders. The plastic bag with two six packs of beer banged on his leg with every step, making his wet jeans stick to his leg even more. 

Nothing was going well that night and not even copious pre-drinks would have salvaged the evening. Not only Valdo Marx had told him the wrong audition time, causing Jaskier to be late, but also, once he got home, he found his cherished leftovers devoured by one of his uncivil flatmates.

The party was just the sour cherry on top. It was a birthday bash for Cirilla Fiona Riannon, practically royalty around campus. Ordinarily, Jaskier would have been overjoyed by the invitation: Ciri was cool and, even if she was just a fresher, she had already found her place in the drama club, demonstrating a certain melodramatic flair that Jaskier was quite partial to. However, since the events of their last get together, Jaskier wasn’t really feeling tonight’s party. Nonetheless, social niceties and all, he had dragged himself into the middle of the woods to attend a party where he was probably gonna throw hands with his archenemy Marx.

Under a lamppost, Jaskier paused for a second to catch his break after the uphill walk. The heavy rain had subsided now, replaced by a cold, ugly drizzle that chilled him to the bone. On top of the next hill stood the Cintra Mansion in all its glory. Massive, pretentious and breath-taking. Even from a distance, Jaskier could hear the sounds of a party, the diffused music and voices screeching in contrast with the nearby woods, calm and unmoved, save from the sporadic gush of wind. 

Bracing himself, Jaskier sighed, committing to walk those last 5 minutes and wishing ardently he stayed at home that night. 

***

Jaskier couldn’t help but raise an eyebrow at the sight of the entrance. 

Two actual stone lions were guarding the marble staircase to the door, their gaze fixed in an eternal judgmental stare, probably at the sight of Jaskier’s soaked jeans, cheap beers and chipped nail polish.

“Mind your business,” he sneered, lugging his beer to the front door.

Before he had the chance to lift the door knocker (another lion, for good measure), the front door was thrust open from the inside. Missing Jaskier narrowly, a girl ran down the staircase and started throwing up loudly, while holding herself on the balustrade. Jaskier wrinkled his nose. Maybe the lions weren’t judging him after all. 

Inside the house, or better, mansion, was as rowdy and excessive as the exterior promised.

A stunning foyer covered by gold-framed mirrors extended for almost ten meters, disappearing into an even more magnificent living area. Two crimson couches and a burgundy ottoman were in the middle of the room, surrounded by ebony art deco coffee tables. Above the fireplace, framed by a black mantle, there was a life-size family portrait of the whole family: Ciri center front, in a puffy pink dress, mouth bent in a frown, and, behind her, her adoring parents Pavetta and Duny. The scene was supervised by her grandma Calanthe’s stern stare. All in all, exactly what he’d expect from an old money family like the Cintras. Classy, Jaskier thought. That was some rich people shit™.

Jaskier hadn’t even had time to properly admire the elaborate chandelier hanging from the ceiling and the improper use of priceless crystal glasses by a bunch of horny students, when he was swept away by a tornado of ashen hair.

“Jaskier!” Ciri exclaimed delighted, clapping her hands. “I’m so happy you made it!” Bright blue eyes, rosy cheeks and a sizable trust fund, Ciri was a force to be reckoned with.

Jaskier smiled politely. “Of course, how could I miss your birthday?”

She crashed into his arms, tugging him in for a hug. “Wow, you’re soaked.”

Once freed from her grasp, Jaskier smiled again, looking around uneasy. “I don’t have a car and you live in the middle of nowhere. Beautiful house, though.”

“Next time I’ll organize a party bus.” Ciri smiled too, meeting his wandering gaze before looking down at the plastic bag in his hands. “Oh, come on, do you really think I’m gonna let you drink this?” she asked, pointing at the Stella 6 packs inside.

“We’re on a budget.”

“That’s when my grandma’s liquor cabinet comes in handy.” She winked.

Jaskier looked around again, dropping the bag on the floor. It looked so sad and ordinary next to the ornate and probably outrageously expensive coffee table.

The living room was dimly lit by a thousand fairy lights draped everywhere, on old and heavy bookshelves, on the windowsills of the floor-length windows, on the marble busts chilling on the fireplace mantle. The whole student body was present. He could see Yennefer Vengerberg and Triss Merigold, future valedictorians, the wretched Valdo Marx, and the entire rugby team, Lambert, Eskel, Berengar, Stefan and the rest of those brutes. And then Jaskier spotted that one unmistakably white head of hair.

Jaskier swallowed hard. Of course he knew he’d be there. Truth be told, that was exactly the reason why Jaskier didn’t even want to go to the party in the first place.

He looked away, staring down and wishing that the beautiful parquet floor would open up and swallow him whole, cheap beers, chipped nail polish and all. 

Trying unsuccessfully to fight the rising nausea in his stomach, Jaskier looked up to see Ciri who was now looking at him with eyes wide with concern. 

“All good?”

He nodded wrapping himself tighter in his wet jacket with a shiver. 

Nothing was good. His balls were frozen, his hair damp against his forehead and, to top it off, he was entirely too sober to deal with all this bullshit. He knew he couldn’t avoid Geralt forever (even if by any miracle the guy remembered him), but Jaskier was really hoping to not look like this the first time their paths inevitably met. 

Catching a glimpse of his reflection in one of the many mirrors that decorated the foyer, Jaskier sighed. “I’ve just looked better.”

Ciri exploded in a laugh. “Nonsense,” she shushed him. “You’re always charming and, also, perfection is boring”, she added, giggling and swaying dangerously close to an antique table tamp, missing it for a hair.

“You are almost too wise to be so young.”

Ciri laughed again, tilting back her head so much that she lost her balance and had to grab him not to fall down. “Wise or drunk, you decide.”

Almost relaxed by Ciri’s contagious smile, Jaskier relaxed his shoulders and straightened his back. The fact he couldn’t see that white head of hair anymore also helped. “I think the second option is more likely.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Ciri pouted, all aqua yes and rose cheeks. “It’s my birthday, you know?”

Jaskier smiled, putting his arm around her waist, partly to hug her, partly to prevent the early demise of other precious pieces of furniture. “Maybe you’ll get a pass this time, but you should really get some water.”

She placed a finger on his lips, shushing him. “Who brought boring Jaskier to the party?”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, slyly giving another look around the living room to make sure there was no white head in sight.

On the right side of the room, towards the exit to the garden, the whole rugby team was hanging out, beer cans in hands, and yet Geralt wasn’t there with the rest of that bumbling band of babbling baboons. Jaskier scoffed, biting his lip and digging his fingernails just a little too deep into his palm. Yennefer was also nowhere to be found, so they were probably hooking up somewhere. 

Ignoring that little pang in his stomach, Jaskier turned towards Ciri and flashed his most charming smile. “That’s all about to change,” he winked. “I just need a little of magic to get me going.”

“I knew you’d come around,” she declared, grabbing his hand. The girl was already touchy-feely as is and adding a few Jägerbombs in the equation seemed to have exponentially increased that side of her.

“I think I’ll take you up on your offer of raiding your grandma’s liquor cabinet,” he added, taking off his coat and laying it on the ottoman, trying not to think about the damage he was inflicting to the couch. It was probably worth more than a month’s rent of his shitty flat. 

When he finally turned around, Ciri was looking at him with a conspiratorial look. Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “What are you plotting?”

She smiled with her most angelic smile. “Nothing.”

Jaskier wrinkled his nose. He hadn’t known Ciri for a long time but it had become obvious soon enough that they shared the propensity to get themselves into all sorts of trouble, as their many after-show cast adventures reminded him. 

The rugby team was still guarding the garden access, brute and obnoxious like a group of trolls, and Geralt and Yennefer were still nowhere to be seen. Jaskier pulled a face. Not thinking was necessary now. “I don’t believe you at all,” he said, “but it doesn’t really matter. I need a drink.” 

“That’s the spirit,” Ciri chirped, pulling him by the arm and starting to drag him across the room towards the stairs, stumbling in the middle of a ring of fire game with great dismay of the players. 

Jaskier gasped with horror as she grabbed the railing of the (beautiful, antique) stairs and the wood creaked, not sure if he was more worried about the balustrade or Ciri’s sake.

“You’re lagging behind,” she chuckled, already halfway to the first floor.

“That’s because I'm not planning to break my neck tonight.”

“Come on, grandpa,” she pouted, leaning on the balustrade, far too close to the stairwell for Jaskier’s taste. “You promised boring Jaskier was gone for the night.”

“Alright, alright,” he shot his hands in the air. “But please take a step back.”

She stuck her tongue out. “You’ll see.” She smiled and ran another flight of stairs with such recklessness that Jaskier felt the onset of five different, yet simultaneous heart attacks. ”My grandma has very good taste in liquor,” she ruled, disappearing upstairs. 

Slightly perplexed, vaguely intrigued and in even more desperate need of a drink, Jaskier followed her. Yes, the mansion was the perfect setting for any horror movie and, with no fairy lights to mitigate the darkness of the empty rooms upstairs, it looked like the house was about to swallow him whole, but he really needed that drink. And Ciri seemed to know exactly where she was going.

So, with a shrug and the definite sensation that he was behaving exactly like the dumb blonde of a Z-list horror movie, Jaskier followed her through a menacing foyer to find himself in front of an even more menacing embellished door. “Why do I feel like behind this door there should be a library full of forbidden books about sorcery?”

Ciri chuckled, eyes sparkling with their own light even in the darkness. “Don’t be silly,” she said softly. “There’s something even better.”

“You are setting really high expectations for this liquor cabinet,” he said, even if anything was better than his cheap beers and being sober while his crush railed the prettiest (and meanest) girl of the university. 

“The liquor cabinet, of course.” She nodded to herself with a little chuckle, almost as if she remembered something funny only she knew. 

And so, while Jaskier was taking in the dimly lit hallway, admiring the scary-looking family portraits and dusty tapestry, he didn’t even notice that Ciri had opened the door and shoved him inside, shutting it behind him. 

“Ciri, what the fuck?”

“I’m sorry, Jaskier. It’s for your own good,” she pleaded, voice muffled on the other side of the door. 

“What are you talking about?” he asked, knocking frantically on the heavy door without response. “Ciri? Ciri?”

It was at that moment that Jaskier realized he wasn't alone. He heard another voice, this time coming from the back of the room, where a still darkness was still looming. “It’s useless.”

He could’ve recognized that voice anywhere. It was deep, husky, damnably erotic and it made Jaskier weak to his knees. His heart started beating too fast to be healthy for anyone. Leave it to him to have a heart attack while locked in a creepy room with the one person he had actively tried to ignore for months.

“She’s left and locked the door,” the disembodied voice continued. 

“And how would _you_ know?”

“Because she did exactly the same with me.” 

Damn Ciri and her machinations. “So you think you know everything?”

The voice stopped and was replaced by the rhythmic sound of ice cubes sloshing around.

Even in the dark room, Jaskier could distinguish the outline of a solid desk in the middle, framed by a wall-length bookshelf all around. It was oppressive and unnerving and Jaskier wanted out, now. Forget the fact that he’d been the closest to Geralt of Rivia and that he hadn’t been able to stop thinking (and possibly jerking off to) the kiss they shared two months ago.

To be fair, the setting of the kiss itself has been subpar – they had been drinking, their breath had been heavy with beer, their bodies sticky and sweaty – but the kiss, oh their kiss. Their kiss had been electric.

Shaking himself out of his thoughts, Jaskier tried unsuccessfully to get back to reality, however surreal his reality was. Still frozen, just feet away from the door, he saw Geralt’s outline get up from the couch and reach the far left corner of the room, still in the shadows. The room was filled with sounds of liquid pouring and muffled music coming from downstairs.

The outline was now coming towards him and Jaskier could feel everything: the surprisingly light tapping of Geralt’s feet on the Persian carpet, the dusty smell of old books and old money, and, last but not least, the single drop of sweat rolling down his own spine. Almost paralyzed, Jaskier waited for Geralt to reach him and raised an eyebrow as the other planted a heavy, crystal glass in his hand.

“At least she wasn’t kidding when she said her grandma’s cabinet was stocked,” the voice continued.

“At least,” Jaskier whispered, throat dry. He still couldn’t see Geralt and those impossibly vivid eyes. Tentatively he sipped on the drink and pulled a face. It tasted like old man’s piss. 

Geralt chuckled. It was unfair that he could see Jaskier’s expression but not the opposite. “I see you are not a whiskey man.”

“I can’t see why anybody would be.” He grimaced. “It tastes foul.”

“It’s an acquired taste.”

“Bad things over time don’t magically become good. It’s just habit.”

A moment of silence, then Geralt clinked their glass. “To not so great first impressions.”

Jaskier could swear he detected the hint of a smile in Geralt’s voice. Standing his ground, he rebuked, “To second chances.”

Trying to stop himself from pulling another face, Jaskier swallowed another sip. His throat was burning and he simply couldn’t understand how anybody could enjoy that. “After careful consideration, I think I’ll remain a gin and tonic man.”

“Fair enough. It’s not for everybody.”

Jaskier stood still, wondering why the hell Geralt was there, barely a meter away from him, making pleasant conversation as if they hadn’t hooked up months ago and avoided each other like the plague ever since. It was probably all a prank, organized by Geralt’s awful friends, proof that theatre kid-jock rivalries extended past high school.

Taking a step back, Geralt looked at the study in all its gloomy glory. “That is quite something,” he said, pointing at the embalmed elk head hanging above the fireplace. 

Jaskier shrugged. “Proof that money can’t buy taste.”

“I’m sure Ciri would agree with you.” Geralt turned, glass in hand, and Jaskier finally saw him and any doubt that the alcohol had been clouding his judgment that one time melted away.

Geralt looked glorious, even better than in Jaskier’s dirtiest fantasies. His hair, so peculiar, shone in the dim light filtering from outside, a halo crowning him with holiness. But those eyes, oh those eyes, a hazel so delicate that it was almost gold, the color of honey, sand, and the sun. 

Jaskier swallowed, hard. He had to take a step back. Forcing himself to take a sip of the drink, he placed around the room, trying to locate a light switch in the darkness. He fumbled around for a few seconds before Geralt reached the desk, confidently turning on the lights at the first try. 

A cold, greenish light coming from a brass banker desk lamp lit up the room. 

Overwhelmed by the realization that Geralt had been there before, probably to hook up with Yennefer, Jaskier sighed. “Easier if you already know where it is,” he mumbled.

With a grin, Geralt admired the room, who looked even more imposing now. “Isn’t it ominous?”

“I wouldn't be surprised if they fixed the world series here.”

Geralt laughed, a sound so unexpected that Jaskier wondered if he’d actually heard it. His joke wasn’t even that funny.

“You should give Ciri’s grandma more credit. She’s pretty badass,” Geralt continued, walking around the room, eyes wandering over all the diplomas, certificates hung up on the dark green, smooth velvet wall. “Must be hard to be born with such family baggage.”

Jaskier bit his lip. Clearly Geralt didn’t know anything about him and his family. “You have no idea.”

Geralt didn’t say anything as he walked closer to the gigantic window and just looked down, probably thinking about his unlucky stars that made him get locked in a creepy study with a weirdo like Jaskier.

Jaskier, incapable to stay still for a second longer, started pacing around the room. Luckily there were a lot of weird things to be examined for Jaskier to pretend to not care about the hotter-than-life life-size action man standing mere feet away from him.

In a few steps, he reached a globe and spun it around, fixing his gaze on it and desperately trying to return his heartbeat to a normal speed. As the shades of green and orange of the countries and continents flashed under his eyes blending into each other, Jaskier could feel the intensity of Geralt’s gaze on the nape of his neck. “Where would you go if you weren’t locked in this creepy study?” He blushed before even finishing his question. Why did he have to blurt things without thinking first?

“I’m exactly where I am supposed to be.” A pause and Jaskier stopped breathing. “At least Ciri seems to think so.” The light tapping of feet was now the only sound in the silent room. “But, to answer your question, I’d choose Cuba.”

“Why?”

“Why not? The weather, the history, the colors, the rum. What’s not to like?”

“You are forgetting the women.”

“Mhm.” 

“How very articulate of you, Geralt.”

“I am almost surprised you know my name.” And, for some reason, Geralt sounded genuinely surprised. 

Jaskier pulled a face, stopping the globe with a pointed finger right in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Tall, handsome, brooding man, letterman jacket, running with the cool gang. How could people _not_ know his name was probably a more appropriate question. “Everybody knows your name.”

Geralt sighed. “It’s a curse.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow, turning back to stare at Geralt’s outline in the frame of the window, dark against the moonlight filtering through the glass. 

“Despite what everybody thinks, I just want to play rugby and be left alone,” he continued, leaning on the windowsill.

“You don’t really mean that.”

“How would you know? We don’t know each other and you’ve made sure it stayed that way.”

“Wow.” The nerve. 

“At loss of words? Seems uncharacteristic of you, from what I know.” Geralt grabbed his glass, sloshing around once again the whiskey and ice. 

Blanking on a better response, Jaskier stuck his tongue out, regretting it the second after.

“And here I thought _I_ was being childish avoiding you.” 

“You were avoiding me?”

“Don’t look so surprised,” Geralt mused and took a sip of his drink. 

“I was avoiding _you_.”

Geralt let out a small chuckle, almost as if he was amused by the mere possibility of that. “You’re not doing a great job at it,” he stated in a manner-of-factly. 

“I could say the same about you.” Jaskier sighed heavily, Geralt having the audacity to call him out on his patheticity was really not in his plans for tonight. “Besides, Ciri threw a wrench in all my avoidance plans when she lured me here, so…”

“She seems to believe we have some unfinished business.” 

Those two words, “unfinished business”, lingered in the dim room, open to interpretation and yet inevitably there, hovering over the globe and over the desk and then to the window where Geralt was still lounging, cool as ever.

No shit, if unfinished business stood for a drunken kiss worth two months of active avoidance and two months of daydreaming. But Jaskier wasn’t going to let Geralt win so easily. “I guess you could say that.”

In the two years, he’d known of Geralt, he’d always seen him as the hot unobtainable dude, almost aggressively straight. Ever since Yennefer and Geralt had been partnered for a student council extracurricular, she had made sure everybody knew he was hers. And now he was standing there, as if he had no cares in the world, simply content with his foul whiskey sloshing around with the half-melted ice in the crystal glass. 

“Truth be told, ever since we’ve kissed, I haven’t been able to think about anything else.”

Of all the things that could’ve come out of Geralt’s mouth and so casually, that was the last one Jaskier expected and it sent him straight into overdrive. “Excuse me, what?”

Geralt shrugged and took a sip of his drink, his gaze fixed on the floor shining of the sliver of artificial light that filtered through the window from the lamppost. “Yeah, it was hot.” The smile of a madman appeared on his lips. “There, I said it. Enough tiptoeing about it.”

Jaskier swallowed, still half-stuck in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean and scrambling for words. “Yeah, well, I’m sure you’ve had enough practice to know.” He groaned internally as soon as the words left his mouth. Anything, literally anything in the world would have been better than those words. 

“Ouch,” Geralt laughed, kicking back his head to down the content of the glass. “Somebody’s been holding on to some resentment.”

Again the words flooded out, as if a dam broke down. “Excuse me if I don’t want Yennefer’s sloppy seconds.” 

As he left the support of the windowsill, Geralt straightened his spine and Jaskier just wished he’d never been born. He’d have given up even his previous guitar to stop his mouth from running and digging his own grave.

“You have a lot of misconceptions about me,” Geralt commented and, even though Jaskier couldn’t see his face, he could feel the strain in Geralt’s voice, almost as if he had hissed those words straight through his teeth. 

Stubbornly silent, Jaskier leaned against the globe, realizing too late that the globe was made to move and he almost fell down to his face. Trying to regain the little dignity he had left, Jaskier crossed his arms, hoping that, for a stroke of luck, Geralt hadn’t witnessed that. 

“I’d be more impressed by your sass if you were able to stand and not trip on your own feet.”

“In my defence, I’m drunk.”

Geralt took a step forward, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve barely had a sip of your drink.”

Stumbling along the study to sit on top of the desk, Jaskier sighed dramatically. “I’m a lightweight.” Maybe if he played dumb enough for long enough, Geralt would accept that his idiocy run too deep to be remedied. 

“You had barely arrived at the party.”

“Predrinks.” He settled, kicking off his feet from the desk and dangling them to brush lightly against the dark, expensive wood. “Have you been spying on me?”

Geralt shrugged. “Just keeping an eye on you. After all, you cannot avoid what you don’t see coming.”

“How very philosophical.”

“I have my moments.” Geralt walked off to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another foul whisky. “I would offer you one, but you seem to feel particularly strongly against it. Also, it seems like it wouldn’t help with your whole ‘pretending to be drunk to get out of uncomfortable conversations’ act.” 

“It’s not working, eh?”

“You really think I’m stupid.” Geralt snickered. “I would be offended if it wasn’t somewhat amusing.”

Jaskier turned around to face Geralt and his whisky. Yes, he did know that the guy was hunky, but that sassy sense of humour and his apparent willingness to put up with him was a definite plus. “I never said that being intelligent was my strongest suit.” 

“I can see that,” Geralt laughed and the laugh seemed genuine to Jaskier. Not that he had much experience in making hot guys laugh. 

Jaskier glanced at his watch. It was barely midnight: the party downstairs seemed in full swing, judging from the muffled music and the sporadic snippets of conversation coming from the garden downstairs, and he and Geralt had been trapped in the study for over half an hour. “Impressive. You’ve lasted 42 minutes locked with me and you haven’t strangled me yet.”

“It’s gotta be our new record,” Geralt commented, raising his glass against the dim green light of the desk lamp and contemplating its reflection with an intensity that made Jaskier’s skin crawl. “I believe the last one was about seven?”

Jaskier swallowed and nodded. Seven minutes in heaven which turned into two months of social hell and avoidance. 

“Although in those seven minutes, there wasn’t as much talking,” he commented, offhandedly, ignoring the mess that he was making of Jaskier’s insides. 

Jaskier swallowed again, this time digging his fingernails in his palms and trying to ignore the rushing of blood towards his stomach. Who gave Geralt the right to stir all that up? It was very unfair, with him being all handsome and barely a meter away from him. 

“Not that I’m complaining.” Geralt paused, putting down the glass on the desk near Jaskier after taking a sip. “However, you are as charming and as weird as I was told.”

“Who told you I was weird?”

“Ciri, obviously.”

“Eh, fair,” Jaskier conceded, glancing inside the glass, into the gold liquid, wishing and at the same time not daring it was Geralt’s eyes. “How do you even know each other?”

“Random student buddy distribution on the first day of uni,” he chuckled. “It’s a long story but I’ve made my peace with it.” He paused for a second, turning to look at Ciri’s baby pictures on her grandma’s desk. “She really loves you, you know?”

Jaskier smiled, partially because Geralt and Ciri made a really weird pair, partially because the same thing could be said about him and Geralt. “She’s very reckless. She almost died twice coming up the stairs.”

“Why do I feel like you share this trait?”

“I won’t tell.” Jaskier laughed and, for the first time that evening, he felt he could properly breathe. Inhalation, exhalation, and just doing it once more… see, it wasn’t that hard, after all. Maybe it was not a prank, after all, maybe Geralt did like the kiss. “Also look who’s talking? The guy who puts his life into danger almost every week just to kick a rugby ball. Or to throw it, or whatever, I don’t really know what you’re supposed to do with a rugby ball.”

“You pass it,” Geralt commented and Jaskier skipped a breath as he sat down next to him. “I’ll let you know also that the only way I can be in university at all. Being on a scholarship isn’t all it’s cracked out to be.”

Jaskier nodded, unwilling and unable to think about anything else besides the careless way Geralt’s thigh was almost brushing his, their fingers almost touching.

“You conveniently skipped over the part when I said you were charming.” 

“Duly noted,” Jaskier whispered, voice hoarse. He couldn’t stand that stillness and unexpressed tension anymore. He sprung up and started pacing around the room. 

Geralt made a sound that could’ve been a snicker and/or a cough. 

Like a moth to a flame, Jaskier couldn’t help but turn to look at him. In the study everything was tinged green: the throat exposed in the snicker/cough, the glass in hand, resting on his thigh, the impossibly light hair barely brushing his shoulders… Jaskier stopped and stared, feeling compelled to take it all in, all too conscious that moments like these did not come along often enough in his life. Maybe in movies, but definitely not in his average drama university student life.

“Come here.”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. These kinds of things definitely did not happen to him. 

“I’m not going to hurt you.”

He pulled a face. “Not what I was thinking.”

Geralt laughed. “Then you have nothing to fear.”

Jaskier scoffed, reluctantly taking a few steps forward. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“You shouldn’t believe everything you hear.”

“I don’t, generally.” Jaskier said. “Except that Yennefer has done everything to mark you as hers barred, maybe, peeing on you.” 

“She is a bit possessive,” Geralt conceded, running his free hand through his hair in a messy-yet-put-together-way that was probably illegal. “However, it’s mostly for show. I think she needs to solidify her alliances in different societies for the student council or something like that,” he shrugged. “I’m not one for politics.” 

“You do lack the subtlety,” Jaskier commented.

“I prefer to go after what I want, to hell with the consequences.” He held out his free hand towards a frankly rather dismayed Jaskier.

Jaskier studied the hand for a second. It seemed normal, although the green desk lamp projected an abnormally long shadow of his five fingers on the parquet, spanning across the whole room. It was slightly creepy, especially considering the embalmed elk on the fireplace, but Jaskier didn’t know enough about optical physics to dispute anything. As a matter of fact, he desperately wanted to know how it would feel to intertwine their fingers.

Reluctantly (but not too much) he reached back, discovering that Geralt’s hand in his felt just as right as he imagined. 

Smiling at him, Geralt put down the glass and drew him closer. “See? Not that bad.”

Jaskier shook his head, finding out that he apparently had turned mute. He wondered what may have caused this – Geralt’s hands running along his back, Geralt’s unruly hair tickling his chin, Geralt’s impossibly molten eyes staring back at him, or a combination of all three. 

And, just like that, Jaskier found himself pressed against Geralt’s chest, safely guarded between his thighs, and damned if he didn’t like it. 

“Has the cat got your tongue?” Geralt laughed and Jaskier was so close he could smell the faint foulness of whiskey in the other’s breath. “It doesn’t feel like you when you’re not blubbering nonsense.” 

Jaskier elbowed him without meaning it, trying to think of something witty to say but failing miserably.

It was at that moment that he felt the full intensity of Geralt’s gaze on him. Barely five inches away from his lips, it was as if nothing apart from them existed – no eerily long shadows, no embalmed elk above the fireplace, no party downstairs. Trying not to look at them would have been pointless. The last thing Jaskier saw before coming fully undone was one corner of Geralt’s mouth turning upwards ever so slightly. 

Geralt’s lips pressed against his, decisive even when Jaskier’s knees got weak. And Jaskier couldn’t fathom how they could be so soft yet so demanding at the same time. He involuntarily left out a soft moan – it was unfair (and probably illegal) being so skilled at kissing – as he tilted his head and parted his lips. As a response, Geralt drew him even closer. 

After two months of dirty daydreaming, a simple peck was not going to be enough. 

Gathering whatever hormone-mushed brainpower he had left, Jaskier let his hands reach out and run through Geralt’s hair. He could swear he was living a mystical experience: there were angels singing, epiphanies to be had, and Geralt of Rivia wanted to kiss him. 

Even more electric than last time, the kiss was setting all his nerves on fire, nevermind the fact that the portrait of Ciri’s grandmother was casting a dirty look from the far left corner of the study. And those hands, oh, those hands were at once wanting and wonting. Running along his body, slipping under his shirt, utterly destroying Jaskier’s willpower to do anything else than stay there and take it all in. First caressing his neck, then playing with his shirt collar, ending around his waist, Geralt’s hands were playing a dangerous game with Jaskier’s sanity. 

Not daring to check his disheveled state in his reflection in the window, Jaskier stepped back to take one full breath and steady himself on his legs. 

Geralt pulled back too and smiled a devilish smile. “So, how did it compare?”

“Oh, shut up,” Jaskier croaked, crashing their bodies together again and making a mental note to pay Ciri’s next rounds of drinks.


End file.
